


do the next right thing

by starblessed



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: Bonding, Comfort, Drake Carne Has A Bad Day, Dubious 18th Century Medical Practices, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Major Character Injury, Thunderstorms, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21632533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: “Morwenna. What’s that?”She followed his outstretched finger across the grounds, towards the edge of the forest. Something in her stomach lurched and plunged. Morwenna’s breath seized in her chest.At the far end of the field, where the tall grasses met the tree line and vanished into inscrutable forest, he was almost too small to notice. The dark form huddled on the ground could easily have been mistaken for an animal… until one noticed the odd position of limbs, and the arms twined tight around broad shoulders. Curling in on himself managed only to make him smaller, not preserve any much-needed heat. He was pressed up against the tree as if it could provide even a sliver of warmth in the frigid morning air.Morwenna’s breath caught in her chest. Her heart seized.Drake.
Relationships: Drake Carne/Morwenna Chynoweth
Comments: 7
Kudos: 27





	1. into the unknown

**Author's Note:**

> Drake and Morwenna are the softest pairing in this show, and they definitely don’t deserve to be hurt more... but hurt/comfort is my jam, and Drake’s lack of self preservation instincts are a little alarming. He’ll be fine, don’t worry.

It was a storm unlike any Cornwall had ever seen, and Trenwith was caught at the very heart of it.

The grounds shuddered at first, and seemed to rebel against it; but gradually they were cowed into submission. One tree after another bowed and jerked, like puppets on strings, at the mercy of powerful winds. Rain lashed windows and hammered at doors, punishing severely the rare fool who dared venture outside for any reason at all. All windows were kept tightly shut. The lights were lit brighter, curtains drawn, and throughout the long night, the residents of Trenwith tried valiantly to forget the storm outside existed.

It was a lonely night, Morwenna could not help thinking, despite the gale raging just outside their doors. Perhaps because it had been a lonely day. She hadn’t met Drake; the weather was too unwelcoming to allow for much running about. As Geoffrey Charles was getting over a cold, Cousin Elizabeth wished him to remain inside. So, inside he remained, and Morwenna stayed with him. They worked studiously though her young charge’s lessons. Following that, Morwenna had retired to her chambers, and read until her head pounded. Following _that,_ she sat by the window and daydreamed, looking out over the fields as dark clouds brewed on the horizon. She was not jolted from her reverie until the first crack of lightning sounded.

And after that, the storm.

When Mr. Warleggan was away on business, the house was always quiet. Morwenna preferred it that way. Geoffrey Charles did too, always in better spirits when alone with his Mama. After dinner that night, they passed the hours in determined domestic tranquility. Aunt Agatha pored over her cards by the light of a flickering candle; Elizabeth tended to her embroidery; Geoffrey Charles and Morwenna parlayed with his kitten, delighting in the little animal darting back and forth between them. No one mentioned baby Valentine, entrusted to the nurse’s care for the night. No one acknowledged the storm outside, even when it rattled the windowpanes and boomed overhead.

At one particular din of thunder, which seemed to shake the house itself, Geoffrey Charles inhaled an involuntary gasp. Morwenna’s hand found his, squeezing gently. After a moment, he met her gaze again, resolute and restored to bravery.

“Are you chilled, Cousin Agatha?” Morwenna asked, glancing towards the old woman by the hearth. When Agatha did not reply, or even bother to look up, a flush of heat rose to Morwenna’s cheeks; she spoke again, if only to fill the silence. “It’s a terribly cold night out there. Only October, but it feels very much like winter.”

“Anyone out there tonight would freeze!” added Geoffrey Charles, with a bit too much enthusiasm.

Elizabeth glanced up from her embroidery, directing an unamused frown towards her son. “Anyone with _sense_ would not be out in this weather at all.”

The fire gave a sharp crackle in the hearth, and Aunt Agatha raised her head. “Someone is,” she croaked, looking Elizabeth dead in the eye. One spindly hand extended out, towards the window, where the knotted curtains could not totally block out the sounds of the storm. Her hand trembled slightly, as if the gale had caught hold of it, but her glare was steady. “Out there in the cold. The wind is screaming with them. No shelter in Bethlehem, no port in a storm!”

Elizabeth grew very tense, visibly drawing into herself. Though she resorted to her usual method of lowering her head and ignoring Aunt Agatha’s ominous declarations, a chill ran down Morwenna’s spine. Suddenly, she was very aware of the wind. How it shrieked and rose about the silence! Like a mournful siren, wandering the tree line, heralding an imminent death... and the drumming of rain against the windows could almost sound like someone running from window to window, beating desperate fists against the glass, pounding to be let in…

“Morwenna,” Geoffrey Charles said, and the kitten mewed. Her reverie evaporated. Suddenly, the storm was once more only a storm. The night was simply dark and cold. No hidden horrors lurked outside; of course, no one was really lost. A peal of the servants’ bell signalled the maid’s arrival, with mugs of steaming hot chocolate for them. All worries were forgotten.

Later that night, as they all slowly filed up to bed, Geoffrey Charles tugged her arm. “Do you really think she was right? D’you suppose someone could be out there?”

Morwenna thought for a long moment, forcing away that gnawing sense of unease, before her hand came up to grip Geoffrey Charles’ own, giving a squeeze of reassurance.

“I think,” she said, “if anyone were out there, the only thought on their mind would be getting inside as soon as possible. So they wouldn’t be out for long.”

Geoffrey Charles smiled. Thunder booked overhead, and the window panes rattled.

Her room was freezing, and the din of the storm seemed louder here than ever. Truly doubting she would ever get to sleep, Morwenna lit the hearth and curled up under her heavy duvet, drawing her legs close to her chest. For awhile, she was content to listen to the gale outside, her mind wandering over meadows and dunes. Slowly, her consciousness began to slip with it.

In her dreams, Drake came to her door with his arms outstretched, and she flew right into him. No one could hold them back; no one could separate them. His hand steadied the hollow between her shoulder blades, strong and secure. Lips pressed to the crown of her head. Rather than shy away from the contact, Morwenna basked in it, craving more… and when she lifted her head, Drake’s grin was broad, beautiful.

“I knew ye’d come,” he said. 

A sigh fluttered from Morwenna’s lips, her hand coming up to caress his jaw. “I knew you’d find me.”

Drake drew her close, drew her into him, tucking a flyaway strand of hair from her face. His touch was unspeakably gentle.

“Don’t we always?”

That night, Morwenna slept soundly.

* * *

By the time dawn broke the next morning, the storm had evaporated as though never there at all. Though a frigid chill still hung heavy in the air, and the skies were clouded white, it was a much brighter day. The sort of day, Geoffrey Charles declared over breakfast, to go exploring.

Elizabeth tutted, but she had no reason to put up more than a token protest. The storm left little damage on the grounds, and as far as she knew, her son did not intend to venture farther. Everyone found themselves in good spirits that morning. After such a torrid night, a pulse still thrummed through their veins, muted energy matched with relieved expectation. After seeing to the spreading of jam over her biscuit, Elizabeth smiled, and warned Geoffrey Charles not to go further than the tree line.

It was a reasonable request. After last night’s storm, some trees could be unsteady, ready to tumble. Walking through the woods sounded a poor idea, as did venturing towards the beaches. It was cold, anyways. As Morwenna saw to bundling her charge up, wrapping a scarf round his neck despite his protests, she almost dreaded stepping out into the chill.

Having Geoffrey Charles by her side, however, made the challenge not insurmountable. Despite the cold air nipping at their exposed cheeks, her young friend remained indomitably cheerful.

“It’s so nice to be outside, isn’t it? I was sure I’d scream, being cooped up inside for another day. Who could stand it? Every time I see ladies doing embroidery I just want to _run_ —“

Morwenna’s gaze was distracted by a group of birds taking flight overhead, black silhouettes against the white sky. She heard, but did not notice, Geoffrey Charles’s words trail off… until he gave her arm a sudden jolt.

“Morwenna. What’s that?”

His outstretched finger extended across the grounds, towards the edge of the forest. Morwenna’s gaze followed it. Something in her stomach lurched and plunged. Her breath seized in her chest.

At the far end of the field, where the tall grasses met the tree line and vanished into inscrutable forest, he was almost too small to notice. The dark form huddled on the ground could easily have been mistaken for an animal… until one noticed the odd position of limbs, and the arms twined tight around broad shoulders. Curling in on himself managed only to make him smaller, not preserve any much-needed heat. He was pressed up against the tree as if it could provide even a sliver of warmth in the frigid morning air.

Morwenna’s breath caught in her chest. Her heart seized. _Drake._

Geoffrey Charles was two steps ahead of her, taking off running before she could hold him back. Morwenna could only follow, hitching her skirts to sprint towards the prone form. Every jolting footfall came close to dislodging her heart, caught in her throat. She could not move fast enough; reaching him seemed to take an eternity. By the time she stopped, just an arm’s length away, Geoffrey Charles was already on the ground and pawing at the prone form.

The second he turned on his back, Morwenna’s awful suspicions were confirmed. It _was_ Drake, pale and frozen, with hard dirt embedded into his moon-pale cheek. His eyes were shut; a bluish tinge colored his usually ruddy lips. He did not shiver, or stir at Geoffrey Charles’s insistent shaking.

“Drake! Wake up! What’s wrong with him?” Frightened, her young charge turned wide eyes upon her, jolting Morwenna from her horrified daze. 

“He — he is —“

 _Dead_. For a moment, it was all Morwenna could think, and past the radiating pangs of her own heartbreak she groped blindly for how to possibly explain this to Geoffrey Charles. Then, something seized her attention — a shallow, but present, rise and fall of Drake’s chest.

He was breathing. Frozen, hurt, but still breathing. _Oh, thank god,_ she thought, and could have cried out in relief.

She fell to her knees instead, hitting the dirt at Drake’s side. It was still damp, and hard through the heavy fabric of her dress and petticoats. Lying here all night long would be cruel enough on anyone, even without a storm to torment them. Yet the brief hope that Drake hadn’t been here for so long vanished when her hands fell on his back, only to be greeted with stiff fabric, still wet from the downpour. His thin clothing was practically frozen to his skin, a suit of armor sheltering him from the elements while leeching him of all the vital warmth in his body.

Drake huddling under a tree, curling into himself and bowing his head as frigid rain fell on top of him, enduring through the long night... Morwenna’s head spun with the horror of it all. Only meters away, she’d huddled by the hearth with a mug of cocoa in hand, imagining shapes in the fire, while outside her friend shivered and fought a losing battle for warmth. All night long... he was here _all night,_ and she never even realized it.

“He’s frozen,” she breathed, words choked with a primal sort of fear. Geoffrey Charles should not see this, should not be here to witness his friend’s condition, or see her fear — he'd lost his _father_ , frozen and drowned in the depths of a mine, he shouldn’t have to lose anyone else —

“Geoffrey Charles, you must go. Run back to the house immediately, and tell your mother!” At once, it was easy to take control. The words fell from her lips as if driven out by an unknown force; a foreign desperation had its grip on her, and there was not a question of what to do, or how. No time to be paralyzed with horror now. Not with Drake shivering beneath her hands. “Go!” Morwenna urged sharply, and the frightened boy barely had time to nod before turning and sprinting across the clearing once more.

He would get help, she told herself. Geoffrey Charles would bring back more men, and they would bring Drake inside — if Mr. Warleggan were there, he would surely not allow it, but he wasn't there and Drake could be _dying_ and Cousin Elizabeth was not cruel, surely, _surely_ — 

Morwenna’s hands trembled. She could not force them to cease, even as they pulled Drake close to her. She heaved his form, stiff and unyielding, off the hard ground. His head came to pillow in her lap, as she worked feverishly to rub some warmth back into his face and neck. His eyes did not flutter; he did not stir. His skin was dreadfully cold.

“Drake… please,” she whispered. “Please, if you can hear me… we’re going to get you warm. You’re going to be alright.”

Was he? Any kind of response would have affirmed her feigned surety, but Drake gave none. He simply lay there, still and blue, looking smaller than Morwenna could ever remember seeing him. Drake was such a physical presence; there was nothing small about him, nothing weak about arms suited for carrying lumber and working at a forge. It was impossible to feel unsafe in his presence, for despite his strength, he was always so gentle… but now, all that quiet power seemed to be gone. As though everything which kept him alive had leeched out of him, frozen into the hard ground. Now… now he was still as a statue, and Morwenna could do nothing but hold him. Hold him, and pray.

It seemed hours before Geoffrey Charles returned, with two men trailing in his wake. They hung back at first, frightened either of the frozen stranger on their grounds, or George Warleggan’s inevitable wrath — but a few sharp words from Geoffrey Charles, and a desperate look from Morwenna, spurred them onwards. In mere moments, they had Drake off of the ground, steadily hauling him towards the welcoming doors of Trenwith.

Elizabeth was waiting, a shawl pulled tight around her, fingers pressed to her lips. Horror filled her expressive face at the sight of the frozen boy. She hesitated in the doorway, one arm bracing herself. A conflict passed over her face, the words of her husband surely echoing in her head. If George Warleggan were here… well, Morwenna shuddered to think what he might have to say. He was always so against intruders on his land, so vitriolically opposed to it… the uncharitable thought that perhaps he would not help at all flickered through her mind, but Morwenna quickly cast it out. Mr. Warleggan was not a monster.

Still, Elizabeth hesitated, and for a moment her uncertainty was even worse than the cold.

“Mama!” Geoffrey Charles exclaimed, desperation filling his fear-congested gasp. “He’s frozen, he’s dying, he needs to get warm — we have to help him, Mama! Please!”

“No one is supposed to be on the lands,” Elizabeth stated, rather obviously.

“But he was, and he needs help!” Geoffrey Charles’s voice broke on the last word. It seemed to jar Elizabeth from her own horror-stricken reverie; the next second, she was suddenly in control, ushering the men into the parlor with their frozen cargo.

The hearth was blazing. Drake was promptly laid in front of it, a pillow propped beneath his head as the same men scrambled to arrange a chaise for him. Morwenna kept to his side as if glued there, never allowing her hands to leave his frozen form. She massaged warmth back into his hands, and brushed frozen curls away from his brow. When the heat of the fire began to burn her back, she shifted out of the way, only to allow Drake to absorb more of it. More heat, as much as possible. This was her only thought as the plush chaise was assembled, Elizabeth taking over for the men as soon as they positioned it before the hearth.

“How is he?” she asked, leaning over Morwenna’s shoulder. Morwenna made a sound, somewhere between a gasp and a sob, before choking the next one in her throat. No more of that now. This was no time to become hysterical, and she was not hysterical as a rule. Squeezing her eyes shut, she drew in a deep, even breath, before looking back up at her cousin.

“He’s too frozen to even shiver.”

“Summon Doctor Choake immediately,” Elizabeth declared over her shoulder, gesturing to the alarmed maid. "Tell him to make all haste. Perhaps he will even be able to identify this man."

Geoffrey Charles's mouth opened wide, but at Morwenna's panicked look is snapped shut again. What good would it do them to reveal they knew exactly who their injured stranger was? Especially if it would mean admitting how often Morwenna and Drake came across each other, or how Drake had few reservations crossing onto Warleggan land... no, easier to keep silent, for now, at least. Morwenna pressed Drake's frozen hand to her lips, breathing warmth back into it, and dared to murmur his name under her breath.

With the maid dispatched, Elizabeth turned on her heel and made a prompt gesture towards Morwenna. “We must take off his clothes.”

Morwenna’s head shot up. _“What?”_

“They’re frozen to him. If we neglect to, he will surely freeze to death.” Elizabeth hesitated, realizing her cousin’s uncomfortable position — Morwenna has never even seen a man shoeless before, let alone mostly undressed. After a second, she moved to wave her cousin off, a reassurance already on her lips… but Morwenna spring upon the man’s shirt buttons before she could be dismissed.

His waistcoat went first, the buttons undoing themselves with greatest reluctance. It really was like peeling back armor; it took two of them to toss the frozen garment aside, and by that point it was half-melted from the hearth’s heat. Beneath, Drake wore only a thin undershirt. This, too, was quickly set aside, for he was soaked to the bone. Morwenna was slightly dazed at the sight, going still as her fingers froze over his bare abdomen. Hesitantly, she pressed against the skin, feeling nothing but solid muscle beneath her hands — solid, frozen muscle, not at all reassuring.

Elizabeth blinked at her, waiting for her reverie to end. When Morwenna remained fixated, she sighed, and set to the young man’s trousers herself. In a moment, he lay on the floor of Trenwith’s parlor in nothing but his undergarments, his worn and frozen clothing set to the side.

“He’s so still,” Morwenna murmured. “He’s barely breathing.”

“He is breathing, though,” Elizabeth replied, laying a hand over his chest only to be reassured by the tangible pulse. “We must take comfort in that. Now, get him on the couch, Morwenna, and we must find blankets to wrap him in…”

Morwenna lifted his head from the cushion, her fingers running through the ice-encrusted strands of his hair. She drew back at once, abruptly, with a soft inhale of alarm. Something was wrong.

“Cousin Elizabeth,” she exhaled. “What — why —“

Elizabeth went very still at the sight of Morwenna’s hand, her fingers stained with fresh crimson.

For a moment, neither of them dared to speak. Their gazes drifted down to Drake, confused, horrified.

“Leave him on the ground for the moment,” Elizabeth finally said, breaking the silence with no small effort. “We shouldn’t move him. Now, blankets — he _must_ stay warm.”

Underneath their careful attentions, Drake Carne did not even stir.


	2. show yourself

An eternity crept by between the time the Doctor was summoned and the time he arrived. As a harried Elizabeth paced the parlour, and Morwenna desperately tried to rub warmth back into Drake’s frozen extremities, Geoffrey Charles could not help remarking, “With Doctor Enys, ‘make haste’ was always an urgent order! With Doctor Choake, it’s a suggestion."

“If only we had Doctor Enys here now!” 

Or _any_ doctor. Morwenna would have gladly settled for a dentist.

Elizabeth, drawing a hand away from her temple just long enough to cast Geoffrey Charles a cool frown, only huffed. “Unfortunately, Doctor Enys is not here now, but Doctor Choake _is._ ”

“Except he isn’t,” Geoffrey Charles said.

“But he will be.”

“Soon?”

“Yes.”

“Will he?” Morwenna could not help asking, more desperately hopeful than provocative. Elizabeth did not take it that way.

“Yes!” she exclaimed, voice rising sharply as a heel slammed hard against the glossed floorboards. “He will be here any minute, god willing, and a strange man will not wind up _expiring in our parlor_ —“

A noise from the door cut Elizabeth’s passion short. Slowly, she turned on her heel to find Doctor Choake in the doorway, medicine bag in hand, staring at her.

“Greatest apologies for the intrusion, ma’am,” he said.

Elizabeth blinked, cleared her throat, and offered the doctor her most gracious smile. “Doctor Choake, of course, do come in. We summoned you with much urgency —“

“I observe your reasons,” Choake said, observing the reason in question with no small amount of bemusement. “Where exactly did you find him?”

Morwenna’s head shot up, a protest radiating through her chest — Drake was not a _thing_ to be found lying around, as though discarded by a careless child. A moment later, however, Choake was by Drake’s side, measuring his pulse and gauging his humours with great acuity. Morwenna would not have said something, even if she’d been able to. The doctor was there to help, and help he would.

“It seems,” Choake declared, after a long moment of deliberation, “your young interloper suffers with acute hypothermia. The bump on the head also ails him — a jolt to the brain, most likely caused by something striking him.”

The two ladies in the room went still, struggling to comprehend this ominous diagnosis. _Struck by something…_ what could that mean? Morwenna’s hand hovered a mere finger’s-width from Drake’s head. They had a towel beneath him already, keeping blood from leaking onto the upholstered settee,,, but the gash at the back of his head, just below the break of his hair, was striking. It looked painful, and persisted on sluggishly leaking crimson. Whatever could have caused it… well, a blow to the head seemed most likely, but from what? Could some debris have struck him while caught in the violent storm, or — or —

The alternative option did not even bear considering. Could someone have possibly done this to Drake on purpose?

Hovering in the doorway, Elizabeth was as white as sheet. Morwenna’s gaze darted up to her, seeking reassurance, but it was clear her cousin would not be able to provide it. She settled for Drake’s hand again, gripping tight as the Doctor continued with his examination.

“I see,” Choake declared at last, as though coming to a great realization. “He must be kept warm!”

Morwenna twitched.

Even Elizabeth could not help herself. “The notion has occurred to us.”

“Yes, of course —“ Choake waved his hand, nodding as though she’d just said something exceptional. “But he must be warmed, you see. More than blankets and fire sides… the lad needs something strong coursing through his veins.” Choake looked between them both. “Ladies, where do you keep your strongest liquor?”

Morwenna could only blink in confusion; Elizabeth looked a little panicked. It was Geoffrey Charles — concealed behind the door, so as not to miss any action — who finally broke the silence.

“You must ask Aunt Agatha!”

* * *

It took roughly half an hour for Doctor Choake to return, a leather flask in hand. Elizabeth trailed behind him, strikingly pale. She looked relieved to find their visitor unchanged — for better or worse — still lying prone in Morwenna’s arms.

Drake’s condition remained unchanged, though most of the frozen moisture in his hair had melted away, leaving a stubborn damp spot in the pillow beneath his head. Turning it over, Morwenna adjusted him carefully; if she doted a bit more than necessary, she did not notice, and her relation and the physician were too tactful to mention it.

“Perhaps,” Doctor Choake suggested, holding out the flask to Morwenna, “you would care to administer the treatment, ma’am? One sip of this, poured gently down his throat, will have his blood warmed in short order.”

After a moment of hesitation, Morwenna accepted the flash. It was heavy with liquid, and the stench was of an unmistakeable nature — Morwenna hadn’t even known they’d had such liquor in the house. Whatever else made up Choake’s cure, it was sure to be ninety-percent alcohol.

Choake took the liberty of bandaging Drake’s head first, wrapping a layer of gauze around the wound. Cream-colored tape stretched across his forehead, halfway hidden by his unruly hair; when no blood leaked through the bandages after a moment, it was deemed a good sign. Then it was time for the tonic. Carefully, Choake pried open Drake’s mouth, angling his head precariously for the drink to slide right down his throat. After a moment of consideration, he nodded to Morwenna.

The tonic smelled pungent, and surely tasted just as awful. Morwenna’s eyes stung just to be near it, and she had to turn her face away as it slid past Drake’s slack lips. The fact that he did not immediately jerk awake, choking and sputtering, was a miracle. Instead, his chest gave a little jerk, a gurgle in the back of his throat speaking for the medicine’s awful taste. Still, it went down. Morwenna could not help beaming. The gag was the clearest sign of life Drake displayed all morning.

“Very fine,” Choake nodded, stepping away from the bedside with a look of relief. “I am sure, Miss Chynoweth, you may handle the tonic from here?”

Take aback by the sudden responsibility, Morwenna simply nodded, words escaping her.

“Very well, then! I shall leave you ladies in peace.”

So, the task of managing the tonic fell squarely to Morwenna. She took it up with relish, for it meant she need not be parted from Drake’s side. This suited her just fine.

As the disrupted routine of Trenwith limped sluggishly on throughout the afternoon, Morwenna saw and heard none of it. She had eyes only for Drake, and a responsibility on her shoulders. There she stayed, armed with her foul-smelling flask and enough prayers to leave heaven in an uproar. Each moment felt like an hour. She spent them accordingly — doting over Drake’s prone form, tucking the blankets tighter around his body and adding a new one every few hours. Periodically, her fingers grazed over the strong cut of his throat, searching out a pulse beyond tanned skin. It was always there, weak at first, but growing steadier the longer he slept. Slowly, the heat of the flames absorbed into his body; the fire of the tonic burned through his blood. Morwenna studied his chest for each shallow rise and fall, scrutinizing his eyelids for the tiniest flicker. Everything meant something. Even the slightest movement meant _life,_ and she cherished each tender proof of it.

With both her hands wrapped around Drake’s own, determinedly rubbing warmth into it, she nearly didn’t notice when he began to shiver. It was a subtle thing at first — one shallow tremor, quaking its way through his entire body. Then again, and again... weak, but growing stronger, seeming to match the beat of his pulse. Underneath his mound of blankets, Drake quaked. His teeth chattered hard. His broad shoulders shook. His hands could not stay still, dancing along the blankets, and Morwenna grasped both of them in desperation to offer some small comfort.

“Perhaps we ought to summon Doctor Choake again,” ventured Elizabeth, watching uncertainly from the doorway as their patient slowly thawed. Morwenna looked up in surprise, quickly shaking her head.

“No! This is good. He's healing. Coming back to himself.”

“I pray you’re right,” was all Elizabeth said... but Morwenna did not waver for a second. With her responsibility came a new sense of certainty, and she embraced it like a rare, beautiful thing. All day long, she watched the heat slowly creep back into Drake’s body. Life bled back into him, drop by drop, and she tracked its steady progress. This was simply the next step... the natural progress towards waking.

When her cousin dared step closer, laying a hand on Drake’s quivering brow, she sighed. Relief danced through Elizabeth’s expressive eyes, reflecting in her face. “He is very nearly warm,” she declared. “Perhaps we should draw a bath for him.”

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Morwenna replied, holding back her eagerness. Something new, something warm, something to help...

“As warm as possible,” Elizabeth declared, and told the maid the exact same thing. 

In moments, the bath was prepared. While the parlor would hardly be a suitable venue for such an adventure, it was positioned in one of the spacious spare bedrooms, and sat steaming as Drake’s hostesses struggled to figure out how to get him there. Eventually, they had to call on a pair of footmen. The two men — who, frankly, were not hired to lug limp figures up stairs —managed nonetheless. In spite of his violent trembling, they managed not to drop him. Morwenna trailed a few steps behind, just in case.

Drake made it — safely — up the stairs and into the bath. Lowering herself down beside him, Morwenna pressed a hand to his chest. The heat was slowly absorbing into his skin, causing it to flush. She exhaled at the warmth beneath her palm, driving out the last of the chill. The water lapped at his bare chest, as if infusing color back into him by willpower alone; Drake’s ribcage rose and fell steadily, his mouth half-open to exhale gentle breaths. Occasionally he made a soft noise, as though uncomfortable, or caught in a bad dream. It all meant that he was alive. Morwenna treasured every wheeze, every uncomfortable shudder.

Without thinking better of it, she cupped the water in her hands, allowing it to fall over Drake’s shoulders. So lost was she in the glisten of droplets against his skin that she almost didn’t remember Elizabeth, until her cousin shifted behind her.

Morwenna startled, pulling away as though caught doing something wrong. Elizabeth was staring at her fixedly, her mouth set, hazel eyes hard.

Instead of pointing out the near-inappropriate level of familiarity, however, she only remarked, “You have gentle hands, cousin. A life in medicine would have suited you, had you been born differently.”

Morwenna flushed at the compliment; she wasn’t really sure about that — imagine being a physician, like Doctor Choake, and treating ailments all day! — but it was one of the kindest things Elizabeth had ever said to her.

The effect vanished seconds later, when her cousin added, “But a life of nursing is not suitable for a young lady of means. You must remember that.”

Morwenna lowered her head, whatever joy she may have felt draining away. “Of course,” she replied softly. “But someone has to take care of him. I… want to.”

Elizabeth stared at her for a long moment, her skirts shifting with every uncertain movement. Morwenna was on the floor, practically elbow-deep in the bath water; Elizabeth didn’t even dare go near it. The difference in their positions could not have been more clear if it were painted in a portrait and displayed before them.

“Very well,” her cousin said at last, offering a stiff nod. “I’ll trust you to see him to bed, then? He may have this room for the night, and hopefully be recovered back to himself by morning.”

It took all her effort to keep her eyes from fluttering shut in relief. “Of course,” Morwenna replied, offering Elizabeth a small smile. “Phyllis can help me,” she added, nodding to the maid hovering in the doorway. “We’ll see that all is managed.”

When Elizabeth finally swept out of the room, able to put their unexpected visitor from her mind for the night, it was a relief to everyone. Like a burden lifted from her shoulders, Morwenna felt a new sense of liberation. Finally, she could tend to Drake in peace. She sponged the dirt and grime off of him, allowing the steamy water to do its work as she labored diligently at her own. By the time the bath was growing tepid, Drake could not have been cleaner. Still, she kept him in for as long as possible, determined to leech every ounce of warmth from the water. He was still shivering, but not as badly, as if his body were beginning to find its equilibrium.

Phyllis was a more-than-adequate helper; she bore the lion’s share of Drake’s weight as they both lifted him up, toweled him dry, and maneuvered him the short distance to bed. He collapsed back on the sumptuous sheets like a ragdoll, limp and still. Together, Phyllis and Morwenna stripped back the bed and settled him, as though tucking a sleepy child in for the night. The covers were pulled up to his chin, tucked carefully around his body to insulate as much as possible. Morwenna poured another sip of tonic past his parted lips, and it went down smoothly.

Now, there was officially nothing more to do. Drake had to be left to rest… and, hopefully, recover.

Yes, leaving him in peace sounded like an excellent idea. The very best thing she could do. In fact, Morwenna thought, while hauling a plush sitting chair from the corner of the room to Drake’s bedside, he didn’t need anyone to fret over him at all, really. It would be more than enough to simply sit by his bedside and enjoy her book.

Of course, how much reading was accomplished was debatable. Morwenna _tried_ … but a few minutes after settling in, her head began to loll against her shoulder. The only extremity sticking out of Drake’s tight cocoon of blankets was his hand. Morwenna grasped it, thumb stroking idly over his knuckles… until slowly, slowly, she went still.

How long she slept, or how deeply, she could not say. The hours passed by in a haze, uninterrupted by even the slightest stir from the figure in bed. When consciousness returned, it was not with a whisper, but with a start... and the pressure of a fierce squeeze, nails digging into her palm.

Morwenna fumbled upright, book falling from her lap to the floor with a heavy thud. This went completely ignored; if Drake were in any condition to register the disturbance, he didn’t show it. His face, slowly scrunching up, was the only thing visible under the mass of blankets. As his brows pulled together, however, he tugged Morwenna’s hand closer, towards the side of the bed. Perhaps it was the resistance to this movement, or her grip tight on his, that brought him back to himself with a low moan.

“Drake?” Morwenna could hardly dare believe it. Her voice trembled with the sacred word. Their hands, still clasped, rose up between them, and she lay another fervent hand over Drake’s own. “Drake.”

He did not open his eyes. His voice, when he managed to find it, was slurred, heavy with exhaustion and disorientation. “Dr— dreadful hot in here, it be.”

Indeed, a layer of sweat lingered on his brow. His hand was not clammy, but when Morwenna raised her free one to cup his face, his excess of body heat reassured her. Not feverish, but too hot... a good sign. Still, she wasn’t foolish enough to remove a single layer of blankets. Morwenna settled for pushing them down around Drake’s neck, giving him more room to breathe. He inhaled a deep breath, chest heaving with it, then nestled further down into the blankets. His hand tightened around Morwenna’s own, as an oddly contented expression crossed his face. If he’d never been this warm in his life, or this comfortable, he was enjoying it now. “S’— s’ sweet...” he slurred, and Morwenna could not help herself.

“Drake. How are you feeling?”

For a long moment, he seemed unwilling to answer at all; but Morwenna kept a hand on his face, coaxing him back, and finally his eyes fluttered open. An unfocused gaze darted around the hearth-lit room for a moment, taking in the dancing shadow of flames on the ceiling, before settling on Morwenna. Something familiar flickered in them, though it wasn’t recognition. They grew impossibly soft, and Morwenna had to swallow past a painful lump in her throat.

“Mmm. Frightful strange...” He trailed off, registering their joined hands with something like wonder. “Can ‘t be I’ve died already?”

 _“Died?_ No, of course not.” Alarm spiked through Morwenna, rattling her chest as she leaned closer. Was he ill? Delirious?

“Tis an angel come to meet me.”

 _There_ it was. That familiar Drake Carne impishness, in the gentle playfulness of his smile, and the way his gaze melted like chocolate when he looked at her. A breath she hadn’t realized she was holding tore from Morwenna’s chest. Her thumb stroked lightly over Drake’s jaw, tracing that barely-there smile. Coming from anyone else, she would be alarmed, but she knew him too well.

 _“Drake,”_ she said softly. “There you are.”

He gave her hand a quick squeeze, and that was all it took. Relief flooded her all at once, nearly overwhelming her. Suddenly, her eyes burned like fire; forced to squeeze them shut, Morwenna grimaced as a tear spilled out. 

“S’alright.” With strength she hadn’t dared hope he possessed, Drake caught the tear, sweeping it away with a gentle hand. Always so gentle, and so kind... to think she might have lost this forever! Sterling herself, Morwenna forced back the tears — if she let herself go, even for an instant, Noah would need to build another ark — and leaned into the touch as Drake’s hand cupped her cheek. “S’all alright,” he whispered fervently. Though he could not raise his voice past a rasp, and his words were still thick with exhaustion, she felt them to the core of her soul. “I be alright, Morwenna. ‘S all well.”

“Don’t go anywhere... please, you mustn’t leave me alone.”

As though ashamed of her plea, Morwenna pressed their conjoined hands to her lips, holding them there as if they burned. There was something to be ashamed of in this unguarded action too, but Drake didn’t care. Still impossibly gentle, his thumb stroked over her cheekbone. He forced his hazy gaze to focus on her. Despite everything he just endured, he looked happy — so happy that it was nearly absurd, happy enough that something inside of Morwenna gave way and melted in love. 

“So long as ‘ee don’t leave me,” he said.

Pressing a fierce kiss to his knuckles, Morwenna allowed her eyes to drift shut again, relishing the steady comfort of his presence. So long as neither of them went anywhere, it seemed, they both had a chance of resting easy.

* * *

Drake began to shiver again during the night, fading in and out of wakefulness. The lucid periods came and went; at some points, he seemed hardly aware of where he was. At others, Morwenna spoke softly to him, reassuring him of both her presence and his own safety. How much of this registered in Drake’s addled mind, and how much of it stuck, was impossible to tell. By morning, however, the last of his body’s reflexes were giving up the fight. His shivering ceased, and when one of the blanket layers was stripped away, he heaved a sigh of relief.

At some point, Morwenna dozed off in her chair next to the bed, her head pillowed against the sheets pooled around Drake’s chest. Last she could recall, dawn was beginning to break over the sky. When she opened her eyes again, it was past noon. A gentle hand ran a steady rhythm through her hair, fingers carding through the long strands.

Slowly, she lifted her head, blinking in confusion. Drake, his eyes half-lidded, smiled back at her.

“Yee are surely the sweetest sight a body’s ever woken up to.”

“Except I’m waking to you,” she replied softly, ignoring a pang at the thought. Oh, what bliss it would be, if this could be every day of their lives! 

“Now, yes.” He laughed softly, and it tumbled through his chest; Morwenna relished the sound like a taste of honeyed wine. “Last night, though… seems I woke to you a dozen times or more, and ee were always there. An angel watching over me.”

“You’ve been very ill,” she explained, propping herself up on her elbows to regard him solemnly. “There was a storm… and when we found you, Drake, you were so dreadfully cold…”

“Mistress Warleggan did explain it all,” he says, cutting her off with a gentle hand over her own. “Yee needn’t distress yourself anymore. I be fine, and ‘tis the way I’ll remain ‘til judgement day. With many a thanks to your nursing, so I be told.”

A flush bloomed across Morwenna’s cheeks. “It was _you,”_ she replied, as honestly as possible. “And you were hurt, and… it felt like my heart being wrenched from my chest. I couldn’t bear to leave your side, even for a moment.”

Just as Morwenna treasured the steady reassurances of Drake’s life while he hovered on the brink, so too did Drake relish these words. He lingered on them a second before shaking his head, offering Morwenna a smile so wide it seemed his weakened body should not be able to support it.

Morwenna smiled back… and, like water, all the strain of the past day melted away.

She took a shamefully late lunch while Dr. Choake returned to give Drake a thorough check-up. The doctor’s summary was nothing but good news. Drake was recovering well, though severely weakened, and sure to develop a cold from the severe chill. For a few days, at least, he would have to remain bedridden. “To give his body time to recover,” Dr. Choake explained to a terse-lipped Elizabeth. “Lest his vital functions be overwhelmed at once, and he should collapse on the spot.”

Harboring their guest for long (especially as Mr. Warleggan was due home in just under a week) was an inconvenience. Turning the poor boy out and having him drop dead on their doorstep, Elizabeth judged, would be a greater one. For as long as Doctor Choake judged their patient could not be moved, he would remain at Trenwith.

Offhand, it seemed a simple solution. With Drake still unable to stay awake for long, Morwenna passed the rest of that day by his bedside, alternating between her book and embroidery to keep her entertained. Occasionally, she traced patterns along the back of Drake’s hand, knowing he could feel them. Once, she even hummed a lullaby. In the short intervals where he was awake, they bent their heads close and whispered. An empty room in a vast house offered the sort of confidentiality they could find nowhere else, and it was sacred. Morwenna treasured every moment, every second, with Drake so close at hand.

The next morning, after convincing Drake to take some breakfast (he insisted on having the broth spoon fed to him, but Morwenna suspected he just wanted to be doted on a bit) she stepped into the parlor and stopped cold at the sight of Tom Harry.

“T’wasn’t any of his business, coming round here,” George Warleggan’s strongest muscle declared. His audience — a weary Elizabeth — wore a unique look of perturbation that stopped Morwenna cold. “I ain’t be having anything to do with that boy’s state — told ye that already, ma’am — but that preacher, comin’ straight through the woods onto our lands, like he belong here —“

“He was looking for his brother, you say?” asked Elizabeth, her face a unique shade of white.

Tom Harry was quiet for a moment, glancing around the room before speaking again. His gaze passed over Morwenna as though she wasn’t even there; instead, he lingered out the window, towards the distant woods. “S’poses something happened to him. During the storm. The lad might’ve run into a type of trouble.”

“You don’t suppose,” said Elizabeth, before going very, very quiet.

It dawned on Morwenna all at once — the way you remember something that seems perfectly obvious as soon as it hits you, like to put on shoes before leaving the house, or to take an umbrella out with you in the rain. Drake never mentioned his full name to Elizabeth, and Morwenna herself never dared to. 

A Poldark relation, being harbored within Trenwith? Whatever bad blood existed between the two families, this was sure to send them boiling.

And it seemed Drake, their unintentional hostage, was caught in the middle of it all.


	3. all is found

Of course, it wasn’t anyone’s fault, but that didn’t stop Morwenna and Geoffrey Charles from exchanging frantically guilty looks as soon as Elizabeth retired to her sitting room.

“I’m sorry! I ran and told Uncle Ross this morning, because he was bound to be worried — I ought to have known they’d come to get Drake, but otherwise they wouldn’t have had any idea he’s alright —“

“You needn’t apologize,” Morwenna hastened to reassure him, squeezing his smaller hands in her own. Some of the tension on Geoffrey Charles’s face faded away; he exhaled mightily, glancing over his shoulder towards the doorway his mother just disappeared from.

“So long as  _ he’s _ away, Mama might not mind Uncle Ross coming to visit. He used to come all the time, before —“

Geoffrey Charles’s mouth shut with a clack, as he swallowed back the vitriolic words before they could spill from his mouth. Morwenna’s gaze darted to the ground. Never quite sure what to make of her young charge’s resentment of his new stepfather — not that Mr. Warleggan would ever call himself such, let alone Geoffrey Charles — she preferred to stay out of the issue entirely. On the occasions when Geoffrey Charles confided in her, he had her full confidence, but she would never commiserate his feelings… no matter how harsh some of Mr. Warleggan’s rules were, no matter how stern he could occasionally be.

“Does your mother know the name Carne?” Morwenna asked in an undertone.

Geoffrey Charles shrugged. “She may know it as Aunt Demelza’s family name, but I’m not sure she’d remember offhand… or make the connection between her family and Drake. She hasn’t seen them together, has she?” He considered the issue with great focus for a moment before wide eyes turned on Morwenna.

“We should be honest,” Morwenna said quickly, seizing the best option available. It wouldn’t do to lie about Drake’s origins, when Elizabeth seemed near to unraveling the truth anyways. Yet as soon as she suggested it, every less-than-sensible instinct within her  _ rebelled _ at the notion. Confessing Drake’s identity would mean a thousand things; even without admitting that they know him, it would brand Drake as an ally of the Nampara Poldarks, unwelcome in this house. He’d be thrown out… perhaps sooner than it was safe for him to be moved. That is surely what Mr. Warleggan would do, and Elizabeth would not stray so far from his influence in his own house…

The  _ Poldarks’ _ house, as Geoffrey Charles so frequently reminded them all. Long before Trenwith belonged to George Warleggan, it belonged to Geoffrey Charles’s father, and generations of Poldarks before him. Technically… as good-brother to a Poldark, did that not give Drake a  _ right _ to shelter under their roof? Oh, the law surely didn’t work that way, Morwenna was twisting it to her own desperate logic… but from what little she understood about the affairs of great families, if the law didn’t support such a notion, basic morality should.

For their varied flaws, neither Cousin Elizabeth or Mr. Warleggan were heartless.

“I think,” Morwenna finally said, very, very slowly, “we must tell Cousin Elizabeth the truth. But perhaps,” she said hastily, as Geoffrey Charles’s mouth dropped open in protest, “not so quickly? She does not need to know… within the hour. Or the day, perhaps, if — if it will complicate Drake’s recovery.” 

_ Yes, very good. _ Drake was the focus of all their concerns. The decision must ultimately center around his well-being — not one of Morwenna’s heedless whims. It would be better for Drake to be left in peace for now. After all, he was doing no one any harm, and technically did have a right.

So Morwenna thought… or hoped.

“So… we pretend we don’t know a thing?” Geoffrey Charles said slowly. Morwenna nodded.

“It is not a sin, you understand, not dishonesty…”

“Just keeping our lips sealed.” A smile crept over Geoffrey Charles’s own mouth, a signal that he understood perfectly. Morwenna’s shoulders relaxed. She offered her friend a tiny smile in return. Lies of omission were hardly lies at all, not the sort of deception anyone needed to feel guilty over. It wouldn’t last long, and would injure no one.

At least, this was what she told herself as she made her way, a bit too eagerly, to Drake’s room.

* * *

Cousin Elizabeth kept to her tinctures, and seemed to take the tack that asking as few questions as possible was best for her overall sanity. 

This suited Drake just fine. The morning after his brother’s aborted call found him awake and well enough to take a bit of breakfast. By this time, the inevitable cold was setting in; his abused body having been through more than enough already, Drake was struggling to find his feet again. He greeted Morwenna with a sneeze barely caught by the sheets around him, swiping at his face half-heartedly before pulling away. His ruddy cheeks were flushed, his nose already raw; when Morwenna touched his hand, his skin burned hot with a slight fever. So relieved to find him warm, she could hardly summon the appropriate amount of concern.

“I’ll be alright,” Drake assured her, sniffling into a spare handkerchief. “T’isn’t the worst I’ve —“ He cut himself off with another sneeze. Morwenna bit back a fond smile.

“Perhaps not, but you won’t have to endure it alone. We’ll look after you, Drake.”

Something soft flickered in his eyes, but did not linger. Drake was bored. Against Morwenna’s insistence that he rest, he was determined to stay awake for a while longer. “Read to me?” 

Though reluctant, Morwenna could not truly refuse him. She thumbed through one of her favorite books of poetry, picking out well-loved passages; after a pause to steel her nerves, she began to recite them. Her reading voice was not strong; she wavered and stumbled over the words, shy of being overheard. Drake, though, was the best kind of audience. He listened with rapt attention, trailing her in poem after poem without a murmur of interruption. Even when exhaustion caught up with him once more and he slumped back against the pillows, eyes growing heavy, he fought to stay awake and attend her reading. His eyelids drooped, but the faint smile on his lips remained, well after he dropped down into sleep.

Morwenna sat with him for a long time after that, her hand in his own. She traced the lines across his rough palms, lost in thoughts which had little to do with Drake’s recovery. The steady sound of his breathing lulled her into blissful calm. She could easily have fallen asleep there, right alongside him.

Instead, she kept herself busy. There were Geoffrey Charles’s lessons to attend to — after he returned from Nampara, to update the Poldarks on Drake’s condition — then finding some fresh wildflowers to brighten Drake’s sickroom. Then was lunch, and then putting together a lunch for  _ Drake _ , and  _ then _ he was starting to get restless so one of the servants managed to find a draughts board….

“Have you ever played before?” she asked softly, settling the board between them. Drake, alert and intense, simply shook his head.

“It isn’t so hard,” Morwenna reassured. Overeager, Drake reached for the nearest piece; Morwenna’s hand settled atop his own, stilling him without an ounce of effort. Drake’s gaze flickered up to her, a hint of mischief in his eyes. He still looked exhausted, but the sight of  _ life _ in his naturally-animated face made Morwenna’s chest feel light.

“With ‘ee as my teacher, I think to be an expert in no time.”

“Let’s see if you’re a better student than Geoffrey Charles.”

He proved to be, if not substantially more restless. The rest of the day passed in a warm haze, as afternoon sun faded into twilight. She taught Drake the game with as much care as she would walk her younger charge through any of his lessons. Drake was a delightfully quick learner. He soon picked up the movement of pieces around the board, and set to capturing as many of Morwenna’s dark pieces as possible.

“Drake!” she gasped around a laugh as he triumphantly seized another one of her pieces. “That’s cheating!”

“‘Tis not!” he exclaimed, grinning. “A shortcut, Miss Morwenna, all t’is. You do me wrong claiming otherwise.”

“You cannot shortcut clear across the board.”

“Ye can if y’ask nice enough.”

Drake smiled at her, painfully sweet. After a moment, Morwenna’s resolve shattered. “Oh, alright!” she said around a laugh. “You can have that piece… but do not try the same trick again!”

Inevitably, he did the same trick, over and over again. A scold was startled out of Morwenna each time, but Drake’s innocent eyes made it impossible to condemn him. Before long, they were both absorbed in giggles, tossing the rules of the game aside entirely to make more and more ludicrous moves, for the sheer purpose of outmaneuvering the other.

After one of Morwenna’s pieces skated a full figure-eight around the board, capturing the last of Drake’s pieces within her two loops, she was declared the winner. Victorious, she set the gameboard aside, turning back to regard him. Drake looked better now than he had; exhaustion shadowed his face, etching faint lines upon his youthful brow, but he seemed nonetheless happy. His voice was growing hoarse, and he was developing a sniffle, but healthy enough too --- she thanked God for that.

“It is past suppertime,” she remarked, glancing towards the last traces of sun illuminating the sky. “Are you hungry?”

“Not really,” he confessed, settling back against the pillows once again. “Tired, more’s like. I’ll settle for breakfast on the morn.”

“If that’s what you’d prefer. You need rest.” Her brows furrowed as he lurched suddenly forward, muffling a cough into his fist. Only a slight thing, and yet…  _ worrying _ was a talent Morwenna had perfected. Without thinking, her hand found his shoulder, massaging him through the brief fit.

By the time Drake fell still once again, the tension had drained out of his frame. He looked up at her, eyes soft, and Morwenna was suddenly struck by how close they were. He was still running a bit of a fever, and his cheeks were flushed brighter than Morwenna would like — but, catching his gaze as it lingered intently on her, she couldn’t help wondering if it was really the fever’s fault.

Slowly, Drake reached up. His free hand caressed her cheek, brushing back a stray strand of hair. Morwenna’s eyes lowered, lips fluttering, though no sound could escape her. Soft as a butterfly’s touch, Drake’s knuckle grazed her lower lip.

“I must ask,” she managed softly. Drake fell still.

“Anything,” he urged.

Steeling herself, Morwenna found the confidence, and raised her eyes to meet his. He was watching her intently, with that quiet earnestness which always encouraged her to smile brighter, to laugh louder, to be bolder than she otherwise would dream of being.

“Why were you out in the storm, Drake?” she asked. “What… could have driven you to something so dangerous?”

Drake hesitated a long moment. She watched the emotion flicker across his face — unease, wariness, the shadow of pain from memories raw and still dreadful. It hurt her to ask, but she needed to know. Drake was reckless, but not careless, never foolish. He would not put himself in harm’s way for no cause — and he’d been found on their land! He must have come on purpose, he must have been looking for someone —

Looking for her. The idea choked her like a vice. Drake got hurt because he was looking for her… and when he needed her most, Morwenna did not come.

“‘Twas a lovely day, to start with,” Drake began haltingly. “Grey skies, but sun shining through it all. I went down to the beach, mid-afternoon or thereabouts, seeking some air. The water was fine. I thought…” He trailed off, hand drifting away from her face. On instinct, Morwenna seized it, clasping it in both her own — a gentle entreaty for him to continue. “I thought,” he resumed, lifting his gaze back to her. “Ye might come along, and dreaded missing you. I stayed too long.”

“Oh, Drake,” she sighed.

“T’isn’t your fault,” he amended earnestly. “Ye mustn’t blame yourself. ‘Twas I the fool who didn’t go ‘til storm clouds were on the horizon, and thunder in the air. I…” His cheeks flushed. “Liked watching the storm roll in over the water. Like the Lord called down from heaven to raise his griefs on us all.”

She could not help smiling. It was so like Drake, to find such beauty in ordinary things.

“Stayed too long, I did, and when I tried to make my way back… the storm overcame me. ‘Twas nowhere else to go. I sought shelter in the woods, and your land… somehow it seemed safest, Morwenna. I crossed over.” He paused, rubbing his jaw, brows furrowing. “The trees were shaking something fierce. An’ the rain… never seen the likes of it before, or felt it on me bare skin. Stung like a hornet’s hive, I tell ye true. What happened then…”

A full-body shudder ran through him, as though the great chill from last night haunted him still in memory. He heaved a great sigh, hand drifting to his hairline, where the doctor had placed a small bandage over the freshly cleaned wound.

“Somethin’ struck me. That I know… a branch, or the like, fallen from a tree. T’were so dizzy after that, I couldn’t say which way was up… and I fell. Somewhere by the trees… then it t’were nothing but the chill, and the rain, and the pain, though that weren’t so bad. Nor was the chill, after a time.” He shook his head. “I… fell asleep.”

Morwenna listened, under a dread-filled spell. Recalling was clearly difficult for Drake, but he summoned the strength for her. Could he tell that every word struck her, too, like an unforgiving raindrop? That the very thought of him lost and alone out in the storm wounded her unbearably?

“Drake,” she breathed again, choked with grief. He shook his head, silencing her. A rough-padded thumb massaged across her knuckles, slowly coaxing the tension out of her shoulders. Morwenna heaved a shuddering sigh; Drake’s gaze caught hers once again, relentless, glowing like stars in the fading light.

“Through the long night, Morwenna… I only dreamed of you.”

Morwenna’s breath hovered in her chest — a trapped, tentative thing, uncertain of its next movement. Slowly, it escaped her, almost in a whisper. Slowly, Drake’s hand went still over her own. Slowly she leaned in, and slowly he welcomed her.

Their lips met in an embrace of heat and tenderness. He kissed her like a forgotten memory, and Morwenna welcomed him. It seemed the most natural thing in the world… to feel Drake, to be held by Drake, to breathe with him and feel their hearts beating in time. It was good. It was right. It set her alight in places she did not realize kindling lay, and Morwenna was swept up in the sensation of him.

His thumb grazed over her cheekbone. She sighed against his lips, eyes fluttering open to find his still closed. The expression on his face was not simply of peace, but utter bliss.

In lieu of dreams, Morwenna kissed him once again.

* * *

The next morning, Drake insisted on venturing out of bed — with Morwenna’s assistance, though utterly against her wishes. Doctor Choake tentatively gave his approval for Drake to find his feet once more, but that did not mean setting him loose upon Trenwith’s halls was  _ wise _ . Yet he insisted on taking breakfast with the family… and when Drake caught an idea in his head, he could never be dissuaded. Morwenna’s hesitation was cut short with a beseeching look, and the most persuasive brown eyes she’d ever known. There was no arguing with him.

When he walked into the dining room on Morwenna’s arm, Elizabeth stared at him as though he was a horsefly who found his way in through the window. Perhaps Drake was expecting this. He only smiled, bowing his head, and Elizabeth was too caught off-guard to react.

“Mistress. I thank ‘ee for your kind hospitality.”

Elizabeth required a moment to collect herself. Stiff and proper, she drew herself up, appraising him with eyes like shards of cut silver. “You are feeling better now, I trust?”

“Better as can be, thanks to your care. Though the knock on the head still smarts, and I’ve a wretched cough.” He sniffled, as if to prove it, but it detracted nothing from his boyish charm. Morwenna had been on the receiving end of it often enough; she kept her face carefully schooled to hide a smile. At the far end of the table, Geoffrey Charles smirked into his deviled egg.

“That is good to hear — that you are well, of course.” Elizabeth cleared her throat. After a moment, the impropriety of the situation dawned on her — the hosts dining, while their ailing guest was left standing in the doorway. Even if Drake  _ was _ a Carne, Elizabeth was a lady, with the manners of one. “Please,” she said, gesturing to the many spare spots at the table. “Help yourself to breakfast.”

“Again, I thank ‘ee kindly.” Drake grinned; if he had a hat, he would have doffed it. As it was, he could only move towards the table as fast as his shaky legs could carry him, gaze fixed on the delectable spread. Had he ever seen a meal like it before? Breakfast in a fine house, even with the master away, never failed to impress. There were eggs and sweet meats, sliced fruits, fresh juices, bread with jam… as he took a seat, Drake clearly did not know where to begin. Morwenna, in the space next to him, picked a roll for herself, giving Drake a clue.

Without preamble — at the exact time Drake’s mouth was stuffed with jam — Geoffrey Charles spoke up. “Drake, your brother was sent another message this morning! They’re all very concerned for you.”

Drake took a moment to swallow, brows arching. “Are they? ‘Tis reassuring.”

“Your brother is the preacher.” Elizabeth did not ask, for she already knew. She spoke as though she swallowed a grape whole, and it was lodged in her throat. “And your sister is Demelza.”

“Aye.” If he found anything offputting about her cool tone, Drake did not show it. He possessed more tact than anyone gave him credit for. “I apologize for any grief my brother caused ye yesterday. He does worry, ‘tis all. Sam be an older brother to his bones.” Drake obviously had no clue how to cut into a deviled egg. He tackled the problem by scrambling it, just as one would an egg fresh off the pan. “Always took it on himself to look after us young ones… I ran him ragged as a mite, getting into as much mischief as I could find.” He tasted his egg and grinned. “My sister do say I’ve a gift for finding trouble.”

“So much is apparent.” Elizabeth studied him for a long moment — he didn’t chew with his mouth open, at least — before nodding. “You do seem much recovered from your ailment.”

“‘Twasn’t my intention to intrude upon your good graces, Mistress. Had I frozen in the forest, on unthread grounds... I’d have surely died. Your kindness has saved my life.”

Elizabeth said nothing, but confided her satisfaction to her breakfast dishes. A blatant air of pleasure lingered as her iciness thawed. Geoffrey Charles made a face at Drake, outside of his mother’s line of sight.  _ Flatterer _ . Drake made a face back.

The meal carried on, and so did Drake. He betrayed none of the trauma of his near-death experience; rather than discomfort in the halls of such a grand house, he played at ease and graciousness. He was a breath of fresh air. Mornings at Trenwith could often be stifling, filled with stiff, solemn conversation. Of this fact, no one bothered to inform Drake. He kept up a bright trill of conversation, remarking on the house and grounds in a way Elizabeth could not take offense to; he and Geoffrey Charles bantered back and forth, and at one point Drake made the boy laugh so hard he nearly choked on his tea. 

When Morwenna and Geoffrey Charles tried to liven up the house, they could count on a reprimand from Elizabeth. Evidently, though, even she wasn’t immune to Drake’s charm. Against her better judgement, she found herself smiling at Drake across the table. Her eyes were brighter than Morwenna could ever recall them; she tolerated his good humour with the grace of someone who must have had her own, at some point in time.

By the time dishes were cleared, Drake’s presence felt as natural within the house as though he’d been built into the walls. He excused himself with another bow to Elizabeth. Geoffrey Charles sprung to his feet with a peculiar look in his eyes, an urge Morwenna recognized from experience — but she subtly shook her head. There could be no going outside this morning, not even for some fresh air. The effort of being out of bed for this long was exhausting Drake, no matter how well he hid it. Proof lay in the exhaustion rimming his eyes, slowing his movements and adding a shakiness to his breath. He rubbed at his head as Morwenna guided him up the stairs, as though it were pounding; by the time they made it back to Drake’s guest room, most of his weight was braced against her.

“‘‘Twas nice to get out of bed a while,” he huffed, sinking back down onto the cushions. This was all he managed before a violent fit of coughing bent him double. Morwenna stroked his back as he fought through it, and helped him lean back once he was done.

“I won’t have you falling ill again now. Not after you’ve made such progress.”

“We made it together, daresay,” Drake replied with a weak smile. His hands trembled. Morwenna laid her own over them; after a glance towards the empty doorway, she brought them to her lips.

“So you will not put all our hard work to waste now.  _ Rest _ , Drake.”

“As ye say, Mistress.”

His cheekiness won him a huff, but Morwenna presses a final kiss to his knuckles for good measure.

* * *

Late in the afternoon, Captain Poldark came to call.

No one in the house was expecting him, least of all Elizabeth. He came alone, with Tom Harry dogging at his heels. Morwenna, who had never before seen her charge’s uncle, clustered eagerly at the window with Geoffrey Charles and Aunt Agatha, both  _ very _ vocal about their excitement.

“About time he showed his face ‘round here again!” Agatha crowed. Geoffrey Charles bounced up and down in his enthusiasm, boots falling against the polished floors like distant rolls of thunder.

Captain Poldark was a straight-backed, dark-complexioned man with a stern face. He dressed like a gentleman, but carried an air of danger — as if the only thing stopping him from reeling around and throwing Tom Harry to the ground at one untoward word was common decency. Elizabeth met him at the door, and he took his hat off to greet her.

They conversed for a few moments, too far away to be heard. Captain Poldark at last bowed his head and turned away. When Elizabeth returned to the drawing room, her face was pale, mouth lined with tension. Ignoring the three pairs of eyes fixed raptly on her, she crossed the room and poured herself a glass of barley water.

“Old Ross wants his boy back, does he?” promoted Agatha, when Elizabeth didn't seem inclined to say anything.

“Indeed.” Elizabeth took a long sip and closed her eyes, as though the water could possibly be imagined into something stronger. “He offered to return on the morrow... but knowing Ross, he will bring his wife, and a whole leave of Sawle Villagers besides. No, he cannot come.” She took another, deeper drink. “I will send Drake in the carriage, for he is not well enough to endure a journey by horse… but it is best to have our houseguest gone at the nearest opportunity.”

Morwenna’s heart thrummed like a bird trapped within her ribcage. Every second which passed from that point on felt like an eternity; the clocks did not begin to tick again until she was able to scramble upstairs later that night, slipping into Drake’s guest room without a word.

He sat up in bed, dark gaze taking her in. “What happened?”

“You’re going home tomorrow,” she replied softly. “Captain Poldark arranged it.”

Drake nodded. In the hearth’s waning light, shadows played across his face, dancing like tree branches in a storm. They added gravity to his face, aging him in ways that seemed utterly foreign. For a moment, Morwenna nearly did not recognize him. She took one step forward, then another, and then Drake was holding out a hand, reaching for her.

“Can't say I’ll despair over sleeping in my own bed,” he muttered, raising the back of her hand to his lips and allowing it to linger. “But I’ll surely mourn for this one. There be so much to miss.”

“Like fluffy pillows?” Morwenna fought a smile tugging at her lips.

“Aye. And hot tea in bed every morning.”

“And our games of draughts.”

“Those I’ll miss most of all.”

When he smiled, her chest felt unbearably tight. She missed him already. She missed  _ this… _ this ease, this comfort, this bliss, like a severed limb. Before having it, Morwenna never knew she wanted such a thing; now, it hurt to imagine Drake far away, when in the past few days he’d been so close at hand.

Why did it feel so easy… to wake up every morning, knowing he would be the first face she saw? To go to sleep every night with his smile and sweet words ringing in her ears? Why did a lifetime with Drake suddenly feel possible? And when did she start to want it so badly?

“Oh, Drake,” she said softly, squeezing his hand. Not breaking their gazes, Drake slowly loosened his grip; the last thing Morwenna wanted was to let him go, but he did it for her.

“We’ll play together again,” he murmured, like a reminder. “T’isnt goodbye forever.”

“Of course not.” As fervent as she could make the words, Morwenna breathed them into the air between them… and slowly, slowly, she pulled away. “Goodnight, Drake.”

His eyes were soft in the fading light. She’d never loved him more. “Goodnight, Morwenna.”

* * *

In some great flash of defiance, occurring at the least opportune time, Elizabeth declared the next morning that Drake would not be leaving Trenwith with Captain Poldark. He could not make the ride on horse without exhausting himself, she insisted; it would be much safer to go by carriage. Morwenna suspected this decision was made primarily to keep Ross Poldark off their land --- but a fondness for Drake wasn’t out of the question, given the way Elizabeth gifted him tea cakes in the parlor that morning, as well as a heavy quilt to keep him warm on the journey. 

“Ye really needn’t go through so much trouble --- after all ye’ve already done ---”

“Nonsense. So long as you are well.” A note of genuine warmth lingered in Elizabeth’s voice. She walked Drake out to the door; when his eyes bugged out at the sight of the waiting carriage, she graciously didn’t comment. “It will take you straight home; you must avoid being jostled too much, and keep the blanket on at all times.” She pressed the quilt into his arms --- an older thing, which must have resided in the house before Mr. Warleggan’s time --- and nodded briskly. “I hope you may soon be fully recovered.”

“Thank ye, Mistress.” Drake bowed his head, offering a small smile; when he looked back on the rest of the household, assembled in the doorway, his smile widened. “Thank ye, Miss Morwenna, for your care --- and Master Geoffrey, for the cakes, and Mistress Agatha, for reading me cards.”

“Your future is filled with toads, boy,” Agatha affirmed, sounding so certain that this was a good thing that Morwenna could not bring herself to worry.

Drake waved to them all, and climbed up into the carriage. He looked amusingly out-of-place --- his clothes freshly laundered but still worn, his shoulders slouched and bearing awed. Nonetheless, he was the perfect gentleman. If Mr. Warleggan saw him, he’d have had a conniption.

“Goodbye, Drake! Goodbye! We’ll miss you!”

“Geoffrey Charles,” Elizabeth warned, but her admonition lacked any heat. Perhaps she would miss Drake too — or at least the warmth he brought to the home.

The carriage spurred into motion, and carried Drake away. He did not kiss her goodbye. He did not call out to her. He could not even wave at Morwenna in particular, for fear of attracting undue attention.

He smiled, and that was all the goodbye she needed. Morwenna’s heart was a tender thing, and over the course of a few days, Drake Carne had won it completely. She locked his smile in the most secret chamber of her heart, and determined she would remember it forever. 

The residents of Trenwith watched their carriage rattle out of sight, taking their unexpected guest with it. A moment of silence passed. Geoffrey Charles shuffled his feet; Aunt Agatha wheezed.

Finally, Elizabeth turned to them all, and said in the most brisk of tones, “I think it is for the best of Mr. Warleggan does not hear what has happened in his absence.”

Geoffrey Charles broke into a grin. Morwenna could not help her own smile as it bloomed across her face.

“Yes, cousin,” she agreed. “That would be best for everyone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i successfully got through this entire fic, and acknowledged poor valentine exactly once. this is was absolutely on purpose, and it's... a horrible victory.
> 
> i successfully got through this fic!! that alone is a victory in itself!! hope you guys enjoyed. <3

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes:  
> \- is it really a Poldark fic if Aunt Agatha doesn’t make an ominous prophecy?  
> \- Valentine is here the entire time, in the background of this fic, but no one notices him because he’s Valentine, and his life is unfair.  
> \- Elizabeth isn’t a bad person. Okay? She has the capacity to be a good person, but it really feels like her marriage to George brings out her worst qualities. While she’s not necessarily unhappy in the marriage, she is a worse person with him than she would be otherwise. Free of George’s influence, I feel like she would be willing to help a strange --- while George Warleggan might genuinely leave Drake out there.  
> \- y'all don't know how much I wanted to include Dwight in this, but unfortunately, he is currently rotting away in a French prison. Sorry, Dwight.  
> \- all the chapter titles are Frozen songs, because... I’m... a bad person.
> 
> Not sure how long this fic will be — I see three chapters at most, and they’ll be fluffier later on!


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